


times apart and times together

by nosecoffee



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Best Bros Bev & Richie, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, IDK this is Just Bev and Richie being good friends, M/M, Minor Injuries, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee
Summary: i was pledged to her; for worse or better*“Richie, are you buying drugs? You can’t just buy drugs from people, what if they’ve poisoned it? You can’t smoke poisoned weed, Richie, you’ll die.”“I’m not buying poisoned weed, I promise.” He assures the boy on the other end of the line. “Just taking care of something.”“That sentence does not fill me with confidence,” Eddie informs him, oh-so matter-of-factly. “In fact, it sounds like you’ve tracked down a guy who owes you money and now you and Bev are beating the living shit out of him in some abandoned warehouse. Please tell me you’re not doing that.”“I’m not doing that.” Richie says, robotically.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	times apart and times together

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “It’ll All Work Out” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
> 
> I literally haven’t written in months bc things have been hectic and I’ve been working full time since covid shut the country down. I’m a sucker for Bev&Richie fics, sue me.
> 
> I’m just gonna post this now and fix the format in the morning so if you’re reading this before I do so I am so so sorry. I just really wanted to get this out before I went to bed.

_that’s the way it goes, it’ll all work out_

  
  


“Oh my god,” she says, “are you fucking serious?”

“I think they’re fucking serious,” Richie replies, kicking at the peeling linoleum on the floor of Keene Chemist. The fluorescent light above them is flickering and buzzing as it does. This place has truly gone to shit.

“Shut the fuck up, oh my _god,”_ Bev sighs, and pokes one of the obnoxious shiny cardboard boxes on the shelves in front of them. “I just - I don’t get why there’s a four-pack. Why on earth would anyone need a _four-pack of pregnancy tests?”_

Richie shrugs, shivering a little in his t-shirt. Like, excuse the fuck out of him, but it’s late autumn and eleven pm, he’s fucking _cold._ “To be extra sure?” He says, trying to sound nonchalant. “I don’t fucking know, Bev, I’m not a fucking connoisseur of pregnancy tests.”

“The _fuck_ is a connoisseur?”

“A person who knows a lot of shit about something,” he drawls and does a quick glance around the empty chemist. The only other person in the building apart from them is Mr Keene at the counter. He’s staring at Richie, because Richie’s tall enough to be seen over the shelves. Bev isn’t. He can still see Richie standing in front of the sign that says _Family Planning,_ because apparently labelling the sign _Pregnancy Tests_ was far too much for the clutch-your-pearls-good-Catholics of Derry.

“Look, can we just grab one and go?” Richie asks, after a long moment of Bev staring at the rack of pregnancy tests like she’s staring down the barrel of a gun. He supposes she sort of is. “I’ll even buy it for you, you can wait outside, let’s just get this over with.”

Bev snatches one of the smaller ones and thrusts it into Richie’s waiting hands, pulling his stolen Hawaiian shirt tighter around her shoulders, as if the flimsy colourful material is really going to keep the chill from her thin freckled skin.

Richie goes up to the counter with the box, the test rattling inside, and he does not look at Mr Keene as he rummages through his pockets to find the change he has that he knows will add up to the total cost of the test.

“I usually don’t sell these to under eighteens,” Mr Keene says as Richie slides the crumpled notes across the counter. Richie looks up, scared for a moment.

Mr Keene meets his scared gaze, drinking in all the fear from his expression. Richie hardens his face, pushes his shoulders back, swallows the fear. “But you will,” he says, gruffly, because he’s trying to convince himself of it just as much as he’s trying to convince Mr Keene.

Mr Keene surveys him, then nods, sorting out the money as the cash register dings. “But I will.”

Richie stuffs the box and the receipt in the back pocket of his jeans and speed walks out of the chemist. Bev is waiting outside, smoking a cigarette, one foot on the sidewalk, the other firmly planted against the wall. She’s shivering.

She looks relieved when he emerges, and when he hands her the test she looks at it and then him. “Can I do it at your house? My dad might wake up - and he’d _kill_ me if he-“

“Yeah, sure, come on,” Richie says, the decision barely a moments thought, and he shrugs, walking backwards to where he left his bike. “Mom’s asleep and dad won’t care.”

The thing with Derry is that crime is low. Sure there are violent bullies, crackhouses, and disappearances that more often turn into murder investigations at six times the national average, but no one’s gonna steal a bike on the sidewalk, or rob the milk bar. So Richie can do shit like dump his bike on the sidewalk and be sure as shit that it’ll be there when he gets back.

If it isn’t, he knows one of the Losers is to blame.

Bev rides with her arms around his waist, her cheek against his right shoulder blade. They couldn’t take her bike, it was in the hallway, her dad would have heard and woken up. She ran down the fire escape and he rode them to the chemist.

Because Richie came when called. He was a good friend like that, he always came, no matter what. And Bev had been crying when she called, quietly stifling her sobs so she didn’t wake her dad.

 _“There’s something wrong with me, Richie,”_ she’d whispered into the phone receiver, and his stomach had dropped.

 _“What’s wrong?”_ He’d replied, barely awake, but awake enough to know he needed to get up, put on some fucking pants and go to her, _now._

_“I think I’m pregnant.”_

So he came right away.

When they get to his house - the chilled air making his cheeks and nose go pink, his curling hair tousled - the porch light is off, which means his dad’s gone to bed. Must be later than he thought. Maybe it was _eleven_ when Bev called, _not_ eleven at the chemist.

Whatever. He dumps his bike on the front lawn - god bless the low crime rate of Derry - and they scurry up the porch and into the house, barely a glance for any other room until they reach the downstairs bathroom. Richie holds the door open as Bev walks through - “Milady,” he says, bowing, and Bev rolls her eyes, snorting quietly - and then lingers in the doorway.

“I’ll just wait out here while you - uh, um pee on the baby stick.” He waves his hands towards the box in her hands. “We might have some ice cream if you want some.”

Bev gets a look at herself in the mirror and looks away, mumbling, “That seems so cliché.”

“Gummy bears? Saltine crackers? Pickles?”

“Get _out,”_ she laughs, and closes the door in his face. He stands there for a moment, and listens to her harsh breathing through the thick wood of the door, the rattle of the pregnancy test as she opens the box and drops it onto the counter by the sink.

Richie makes himself walk away.

She’d still been sniffling when he got to her apartment block. “Please don’t ask,” she said as she climbed on the back of his bike, so he hadn’t.

But now, now he has space to think and all he can think is _who? Who did this to her? Is she afraid of what I’ll do if I know? Is she afraid of them? Why me and not Bill or Ben or Mike? What if it’s one of them? What if it’s_ not?

Richie shakes the thoughts out, and switches on the kitchen light to find something for Bev to eat. He could call someone. Not Eddie, his mom would go batshit, and same with Stan. Bill would come, but if it was him Bev might not want him here. If it wasn’t, it’d still be precarious. That also puts Ben out of the running. Mike would answer, Mike would come over right away, but Mike has farm duties now, and a _lot_ of them at that, Mike needs to get up early in the morning to care for the farm that will be left to him.

Richie grabs a couple packets of ovalteenies and some Tab and heads back to the bathroom, knocking softly on the door.

“What offerings have you brought?” Bev asks as she cracks open the door, her eyes peering through the crack, light spilling out into the hallway.

“Ovalteenies and Tab, my illustrious queen, a feast fit for royalty.” He holds them out and kneels on one knee, head bowed. Bev snorts again and opens the door the full way.

“Come, let us eat at the banquet table.”

The banquet table, as it turns out, is the bathtub, their legs left to dangle over the edge of the tub as they spill ovalteenies all over their stomachs and their Tab fizzes over into their faces. Bev put the pregnancy test on the top of the toilet where neither of them can properly see it and they ignore it for over the amount of time you’re supposed to wait for results for.

Their ovalteenies are gone and their Tabs are half drunk when Bev looks up at the ceiling and says, “I know I told you not to ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Richie replies, adjusting his glasses.

“I know you weren’t. But,” she pauses. He looks at her. Bev typically takes up a lot of space. It’s a side effect of her attitude towards the world - a sort of cold, _come get me, coward_ attitude - which makes it all the more shocking when she looks so entirely, utterly small right then, in the bathtub. “But I owe you an explanation.”

“You really _don’t.”_ He says, easily, meaningfully.

“Richie.” Bev’s voice is hard, gruff. She’s seventeen and she’s scared. Perhaps more scared than he’s ever seen her, and they took on a violent, murderous teenager in a rock war together when they were thirteen.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Richie drawls, and sips at his Tab.

“It was Ben.”

He splutters and spits it out in a spray, turning to her, satisfied triumph all over his face, he knows. “I _knew_ it. You two can’t keep your eyes off each other.” Richie stops short, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. _“Please_ tell me you didn’t bump uglies in the clubhouse.”

“We didn’t,” Bev assures him without looking away from the ceiling.

He pokes her bicep and she swats him away. “Are you only saying that so I won’t be grossed out?”

Bev bumps his right shoulder with her left and rolls her eyes. “I would _never_ have sex in the clubhouse, Richie.”

“Really?” Richie presses, curious. “Not even in the hammock?”

“Where your fungal ass has taken up residence these past five years?” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “I’d rather have sex in the Kenduskeag.”

“Ew.”

“Correct reaction,” Bev tells him and steals what’s left of his Tab from him, skulking it. “We need to take that hammock down and burn it. I’ll buy a new one, but that one needs to go.”

He gapes at her, aghast - less at the blatant thievery and more at what she’d said. “And get rid of years of - ow!” She pinches his side and so he swats her thigh.

“I can’t explain just how much I don’t want you to finish that sentence,” Bev chuckles, leaning away from his swatting. Eventually he relents and they lean back against the side of the bath again, legs sling over the other side.

“So.” Richie says, pursing his lips, “Ben.”

“Ben.” Her throat bobs as she swallows.

It’s far too serious a moment. Richie’s good at breaking things, especially tense, important moments. “Is his dick as big as I think it is?”

Bev groans, _“Fucks_ sake, Richie.”

“I’m just asking!” He laughs, throwing up his hands, helplessly.

“I refuse to answer that question,” Bev tells him, finality in her tone, and she hoists herself out of the bathtub.

“Really? You’re going to go check your pregnancy test to get out of this conversation? This isn’t over, Marsh. I’ll find out Benny’s dick size if it’s the last thing I do.”

Bev stops in front of the toilet and breathes in deeply before reaching for the test. Richie struggles to get himself free of the bathtub so he can stand beside her in this moment. He may joke but he can put the jokes aside, he can be more than them. He _is_ more than them. He’s her friend, and the support she needs in this moment.

They both exhale at the same time. Bev turns the test over. A big bold one plus sign shines up at them.

Bev shivers. Richie thinks she’s maybe trying not to cry. Which is fair given the circumstances.

“I can’t go home.” Is the first thing she says after a minute of heavy, hanging silence. “If dad sees me, he’ll know I’m hiding something - and if he knows-“

“Stay.” Richie offers her immediately. “Let’s watch TV. You can have my bed, we’ll make a night of it.”

She doesn’t say no.

When his mother comes in the next morning to say goodbye and remind him he has school, Beverly Marsh is sleeping in his bed and he’s sleeping on two couch cushions, a towel as his blanket. She’s not too bothered by this, but wakes them both all the same.

~

When one becomes pregnant when one does not wish to be pregnant it is a best friend’s duty to drive their pregnant friend to the nearest, nicest abortion clinic and hold their hand in the waiting room.

It is also a best friends duty to not ask their pregnant friend why they have not told the father of their child about the child’s existence, however short that existence might come to be, because it’s not a best friends fucking business why not, okay?

And in this instance, Richie is the best friend and Bev is pregnant, so he drives her to the nicest abortion clinic in Bangor, after school, and holds her hand in the waiting room and he doesn’t ask her why she hasn’t told Ben or literally anyone but him. Bev stares at the floor and then asks, “I’m making the right choice, aren’t I?”

“That’s not for me to say,” Richie replies, feeling far too serious. He breaks the moment by tugging her t-shirt up her stomach and bending to press his ear to the exposed skin. “Let’s ask the foetus, shall we? Hello! Foetus!”

Bev shoved him off, giggling and pulling her shirt back down. “Oh, fuck off, Rich.” She’s smiling though, so he counts that as a plus.

It took them two weeks to pool together the amount of money they needed to pull this off. Richie begged his parents for pocket money, claiming a birthday in the group, and then he scammed the rest of the losers over cards, nearly suffering a death by Eddie’s hands. Bev worked extra shifts at her diner job after school and as soon as they had the money, Richie grabbed his dad’s car keys and they were off.

He stays there, in the waiting room for nearly a full minute after she goes in for the procedure, and then heads outside to find a payphone. There’s one just down the street.

Eddie picks up on the third ring. “Dude where are you? You and Bev disappeared after school. We all thought you guys were _dead.”_

“Not dead,” Richie replies tiredly. “Just having a fun little excursion.”

“Excursion _where?”_ Eddie inhales sharply, and Richie prepared for the line of questioning that follows. “Richie, are you buying drugs? You can’t just buy drugs from people, what if they’ve poisoned it? You can’t smoke poisoned weed, Richie, you’ll die.”

“I’m not buying poisoned weed, I promise.” He assures the boy on the other end of the line. As much as Eddie’s stress stresses him out, it’s good to hear his voice. “Just taking care of something.”

“That sentence does _not_ fill me with confidence,” Eddie informs him, oh-so matter-of-factly. “In _fact,_ it sounds like you’ve tracked down a guy who owes you money and now you and Bev are beating the living _shit_ out of him in some abandoned warehouse. Please tell me you’re _not_ doing that.”

“I’m not doing that.” Richie says, robotically.

“Are you just saying that so I won’t freak out?” Eddie asks, sounding like he’s freaking out, which was not the purpose of this phone call. This phone call was made so _Richie_ wouldn’t freak out, but also so he could assure himself he’d done everything he could for Bev and it was the right thing to do, too.

“Yes, but also because it’s true.” Richie huddled further into his windbreaker. It’s nearly winter. “It’s not nearly anything as sinister as you think it is.”

Eddie pauses and then asks, “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Nope.” Richie responds. “Not my story to tell. Probably ever.”

“That’s so fucking cryptic.” Eddie huffs.

“I’m aware.” He is.

Two and a half hours later, Bev comes back. Paler and not smiling, but somehow lighter than she’s been in days. They head out of the building and down the street towards his car, and Richie promptly trips on the curb and breaks his jaw.

In an effort to catch himself, he twists as he falls. His wrists jarr as they hit the concrete, and his chin hits the edge of the sidewalk itself. Bev’s still laughing at the epic wipeout by the time Richie spits out a mouthful of blood and groans, rolling into his back.

“Oh, shit!” Bev yells and basically throws herself at Richie, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Richie laughs, brokenly, and opens his mouth to say something. Blood spills over his lips and he chokes back a pained groan, unable to speak for the pain.

“What’s wrong?” Bev asks, pale and worried, and Richie tries to push Bev off him, as Bev pulls back his lips and peers, worriedly, into his mouth.

“Gerroff!” Richie groans, pushing Bev away and then cupping his jaw in pain. “Shit.”

He spits out another glob of blood and then Bev takes his car keys and drives his dad’s car around to where he’s sitting on the sidewalk. “Wanna see what Bagor hospital looks like?” She asks even though if Richie could speak without being in pain he still wouldn’t be able to say no, because it’s not a question.

Bev drives him to the Bangor hospital - and they don’t say a word about how she isn’t legally allowed to drive yet - and she calls his mom on the hospital pay phone to explain the situation, since he’s in no state to talk, currently. His mother is none too pleased, and also on her way by the end of the call.

~

Richie’s sitting, stationary, on his bike at the quarry, a glum look on his face. Mike and Bev arrive only five minutes after Stan does. “Richie!” Mike waves, obviously ignorant to what has happened. Most of them are. The only people who know so far are his parents, Bev, and now Stan, because he interrogated Richie upon arrival.

Richie waves back, sullenly, watching Bill, Eddie, and Ben pull up behind Mike and Bev. Bev gives him a knowing look, and Richie flips her the bird, resting his chin on his folded arms, braced on his handlebars.

“Something’s up.” Eddie says, pointing at Richie. “Why aren’t you talking?”

Richie shrugs, sitting up straight.

“But you never shut up!” He insists, dropping his bike and stalking over. He jabs his finger against Richie’s clavicle in an accusatory manner, and says, “What are you hiding, Richie?”

Richie’s lips twist into a sour expression and he shrugs again, instead of answering. Stan nudges Richie softly with his shoulder, pulling Richie’s attention from the short boy in front of him. “Answer his question, Rich.” Richie rolls his eyes at him. “Go on,” he says, a joking tone to his voice, “give them a smile.”

Richie pushes Stan hard, in an effort to shove him off his bike and onto the ground, and then smiles wide. He knows what they see, because he spent a good portion of the night before staring at the metal wires all over his closed teeth.

“Oh shit.” Eddie says, and Bev cackles, dropping her bike and sprinting over to get a closer look, despite her first hand interaction with his broken jaw the night before. The others aren’t far behind Bev.

“Got his jaw wired shut, doctor says six to eight weeks before they can be sure it’s properly healed.” Stan continues, perfectly steady beside Richie despite his continuing attempts to shove him off his bike and onto his ass.

“C-c-can you talk?” Bill stutters, curiously.

Richie scowled. “Can _you?”_ He asks, lips moving but the words coming out muffled from behind his teeth.

Everyone laughs. Richie just scowls.

~

The weeks after Richie’s jaw being wired shut and Bev’s abortion pass by in a daze until it’s New Years Eve and she’s crouching beside him in someone’s backyard, listening to him whine through his teeth about drinking too much and feeling nauseous.

“When are the wires coming off?” She asks, distractedly. Richie groans again, rocking towards the wall of the house. The party they’ve abandoned rages on inside. It’s not even eleven yet. God he’s a lightweight. Maybe it’s all the liquid food he’s been eating. He’s never been this drunk before, he can usually hold his liquor.

“Next week,” he replies, resting his forehead against icy brick. It’ll be nice to finally eat real food again. “I’m gonna vomit.”

“What,” Bev replies, sounding dazed. She’s on her third cider, maybe that’s it. Richie can’t focus. There’s vomit climbing up his throat.

“I’m gonna vomit,” he repeats and flings out an arm blindly in Bev’s direction, “help me.”

 _”How_ do you vomit?” Bev asks worriedly, catching his arm. She braces her other hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. “Your _jaw_ is _wired shut.”_

“I’ve been eating liquid food for over a month, Bev,” Richie replies, gritting his teeth, which isn’t hard because they’re almost permanently grit. “How do you _think_ it’s gonna come out?”

He doesn’t throw up. He chokes it back and tears dribble down his face, behind his glasses. When the moment’s over, they sit beside each other, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, against the wall in the snow. Bev lights a cigarette, he steals her cider.

When she turns her head and noses at his cheek and kisses him he doesn’t fight it. It’s Bev. When she pulls away, though, his mind is clear enough for him to say, “I’m gay.”

Bev stares for just a moment before she nods and leans back against the wall again. “I’m in love with Ben,” she replies in kind.

Not to be outdone, Richie raises his chin and blurts out, “I’m in love with Eddie.”

 _“Duh,”_ she says, and takes a drag of her cigarette.

“You _knew?”_ Richie asks, pretty damn aghast. If he could gape he would gape, but he can’t.

“Who didn’t?” Bev replies, cigarette trapped between her lips. “It’s fucking obvious, Rich.”

“So you’re in love with Ben,” Richie takes a long sip of her cider, and continues, slowly, “and you knew I was in love with Eddie?”

“Yup.” She pops the P like bubblegum.

“Then why did you kiss me?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to.” Her shrug is hijacked by a shiver. “You’re a good friend, Richie.”

He cocks his head and puts on a sarcastically earnest expression, informing her, “We _generally_ don’t kiss friends for being good friends.”

Bev rolls her eyes and shoves him, taking back her cider and replacing it with her cigarette. “I know that, shut up.”

“I figured you had to be in love with Ben if you’d had sex with him. I figured you never would have if it was just a crush.”

“I thought it was. A crush, that is. I thought I’d get over it. But then I’d see him looking at me, and I wanted to kiss him. And then he was so gentle and so sweet, I just. I should have been more careful.”

“Hey, that’s all in the past now.”

The cider jingles inside the bottle as she swigs from it. “We haven’t talked about it,” Bev admits.

He tries not to wince, “You probably should.”

“You’re right.”

Richie trades back the cigarette for her cider. “Is his dick humongous?” Bev chuckles.

“You’re really not going to let up on this, are you?”

“Nope. I will find out the quality of Ben Hanscom’s dick or die trying.”

“Prepare to die, then, Trashmouth.”

They stare up at the sky, silently. The party rages on inside. Richie’s sure he’s missing something epic. Doesn’t really matter though, not if Bev’s willing to miss it with him.

“Want to resolve that 1994 is the year we tell Ben and Eddie about our feelings?” He asks her, after an uncharacteristically long, contemplative moment.

“Ew,” she exclaims, and then smiles, “why would I resolve to do it in 1994 when I can still do it in 1993?”

“Bev!” Richie stumbles to his feet and chases her up the porch, towards the pounding music. “Bev, come back!”

“Richie!” Eddie nearly slams into him, and grabs Richie’s biceps for balance. He loses Bev in the crowd. “There you are! Jesus you’re fucking freezing, what were you doing _trying_ to get hypothermia? Come with me, you fucking wannabe icicle. Dumbass.”

Eddie drags him in the opposite direction he saw Bev going, and Richie, in all his drunkenness and unwillingness to leave Eddie’s side now that he’s here, pulls weakly at Eddie’s grip, protesting, “No, I need to find Bev!”

“You _need_ a warm blanket,” Eddie clips, thrusting him onto an empty couch, unceremoniously. “And hot water. Stay here.”

“I need to stop her from confessing her love to Ben.” Richie explains, getting back to his feet, as wobbly as they may be. “She’s drunk.”

Eddie’s eyes widen. “She’s doing _what?”_

“I made this stupid joke that we should resolve to confess our love to-“

“Wait who are _you_ confessing to?”

“Good damn question, Eduardo Sphagwardo, and I’ll answer it another day, for now we need to stop Bev from making a mistake she’ll regret.”

“Richie.” His tone is harsh, his brow furrowed.

 _“Fine,”_ Richie drawls, “I’ve been in love with you since I was seven and I got a rock stuck in my nose and you pulled it out with a pair of tweezers because my crying was annoying you. Happy now?”

Eddie grabs Richie’s collar and pulls him into a kiss. Richie freezes. He’s much too drunk for this. He did a bunch of mental logistics on how much the wires holding his jaw shut would hinder his activities - eating, talking, yawning (near impossible, as it turns out) - but kissing was not one that he’d considered. See, Richie doesn’t get kissed, so accommodating it was not on the books, though the joke had been floated - _aw, no one’s gonna kiss me if I have wires on my teeth._

Nonetheless, he is being kissed. By Eddie Kaspbrak, boy of his dreams, of all people.

“Oh my god,” he says when Eddie breaks away from him.

Eddie looks sheepish. “What?”

“I can’t suck your dick. This is so sad.”

“Richie, what the fuck,” Eddie gapes, and Richie cups his cheek and kisses him again, intoxicated both by alcohol and by Eddie. It’s everything he ever wanted.

(He spots Bev about five minutes later, and she’s being piggybacked by Ben, who keeps kissing the back of her hand and smiling dazzlingly. She’s smiling just as wide. When she sees him holding Eddie’s hand, she winks. Richie thinks he might owe her a drink.)

  
  


_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Thanks for reading! If you liked it, please tell me all about what you liked in the comments, even if it’s short, I appreciate it. If you’re shy, kudos are fantastic as well. You can hmu on Tumblr @nose-coffee bc I have a brand to keep up. I mostly post memes and BLM stuff so if that seems like your cup of tea I am also your cup of tea.
> 
> Anyway, once again I say thank you for reading this doc that’s been trapped, unfinished in my google docs for literal months, and I really hope you like it!


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